If you’ve spent your life managing every thought like a crisis, letting go can feel like ego death. But beneath the recursive storm is something real—your baseline existence. This is not a spiritual awakening. It’s your first contact with reality, unfiltered.

After a major internal shift, I’m not falling apart—but I’m definitely not the same. I’m observing my thoughts, craving sweetness, bingeing shows, and trying to live like a human while integrating a whole new view of reality. It’s awkward, surreal, and exactly where I’m supposed to be.

When comfort was denied and affection disappeared, I adapted. I hovered instead of landing. I picked at my skin instead of asking for help. I lay near the door instead of knocking. These weren’t quirks. They were survival strategies in a home that didn’t make room for my need to be held.

I grew up saying “Nobody ever tells me anything,” and I meant it. My parents didn’t share their beliefs, didn’t teach me about my body, and didn’t challenge the religious system that filled in the gaps. This silence shaped how I saw the world—and myself.

These weren’t dramatic traumas—they were slow, quiet absences. Looking back, I can see how emotional misattunement shaped my self-concept, survival strategies, and adult chaos. This is what emotional neglect actually looks like from the inside.

I used to surround myself with visuals to process trauma—now I no longer need them. This shift isn’t a loss; it’s a sign that the work has moved inward. I’m not seeing it anymore because I’m starting to be it.

This wasn’t just organizing pictures—it was restoring memory. Revisiting decades of photos helped me reintegrate a timeline that dissociation and trauma had erased. It was a quiet but radical act of self-confirmation.

Processing childhood trauma doesn’t always end with confrontation. Sometimes it leads to a deeper truth: offering your parents a mirror—not to punish, but to help them see what shaped all of you.

Being broken isn't about weakness. It's about the rupture caused by relational neglect, systemic control, and emotional isolation. This piece explores what breaks in a person—and what it means to slowly, imperfectly reconnect those pieces.

This isn’t overreacting. It’s integration in real time. From sorting old photos to questioning childhood memories, you’re not regressing—you’re reclaiming. Here’s why your disorientation actually makes sense.